


Backstory of a Bannbreker

by SaxSpieler



Category: Runescape
Genre: Backstory, Collection of one shots, Fremennik life, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7777846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxSpieler/pseuds/SaxSpieler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots relating to the backstory/childhood of my World Guardian, Finley. For the original post (containing more comprehensive context for each one shot) go here : http://saxspielercaderface.tumblr.com/post/148368391426/finleys-backstory</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thrown to the Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Finley meets Geilir Hradarsson, Rellekka’s houndmaster, after getting lost while on a trip to the market with Ava and her older sister, Athrhan.

143 of the 5th Age:

“Take care of your sister, Athrhan. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Aye, Ma.”

A hand latched around Finley’s wrist, tugging the three year old's attention away from the line of ants she had been examining.

“C’mon, Fish-Brains. I want to go exploring.”

“Ronnie?”

“Don’t call me that.” Athrhan’s grip tightened as the still unsteady toddler was dragged alongside her elder sister away from the marketplace. Finley looked up at the six year old leading her and blew a particularly wet raspberry in response, earning herself a daggered scowl. “Stop that! Ma left me in charge, so ye behave yerself, aye?”

There was another yank on her wrist, and Finley stumbled. The ground gave way beneath her, and she toppled into a mud puddle, face-first.

A wail burst from her throat as she was soaked head to waist with frigid, smelly mud. Though she couldn’t see, she felt Athrhan yank her upright by the back of her dress and push her in a different direction.

“Gods, yer such a pish head…”

She felt herself being lifted under the armpits as tears and mud streamed down her cheeks. Her feet struck something hard - a fencepost? - and she was dropped into another mud puddle, this one smelling of bird droppings.

“Ronnie! Ronnieeeeee!” she cried, mud stinging her eyes.

“Quiet! Don’t want the wolves to hear, do ye? They get a bit gutting when they hear little fish-brained brats crying their eyes out.”

Finley called for Athrhan again and again, feeling her way around the mud, but all that answered her after that was the clucking and squawking of chickens.

The cold had started to seep through her clothes, not helped by the mud, and she started to shiver, her cries becoming shaky and punctuated with coughs. Wiping the now slightly dried mud from her eyes, she crawled over to the far side of the fence and squeezed through a Finley-sized hole near the bottom. Pulling herself upright, she looked around.

“Ma? Ronnie?” Her voice was small, made weak by her shivers. She toddled about, hoping to see her mother’s stout figure or hear her booming ‘market voice’ around every next corner.

Nothing. Athrhan had brought her to the quietest quarter of the city, where no one would find her.

No one.

She was lost.

Alone.

She curled up where she was, wracked with sobs, fresh tears dripping down her face. The cold pressed down on her, and she shivered ever more violently by the second.

Suddenly, something whuffled against her ear, warm air blasting against the side of her face.

She heard panting, felt a warm and impossibly wet tongue wipe her cheeks clear of mud and tears. Looking up, she was met with the sight of feral, golden eyes and a row of gleaming teeth.

“W…wolf!” she squeaked, curling up tighter. Athrhan was right - the wolves had come, no doubt attracted by her cries.

She was done for.

In the next moment, she was being lifted by the back of her dress and carried somewhere, muffled panting in her ears. Though fear made the tears flow faster, she bit her tongue to keep from making any more sounds.

Suddenly, the cold receded, a stuffy warmth that smelled of wet animal replacing it. She was lowered onto a bed of straw and almost immediately surrounded on all sides by balls of fur.

Vibrating and yipping balls of warm fur with tiny, wet tongues that licked her cleaner than she had ever been that day.

Though she braced for tearing teeth and ripping claws, they never came, and the balls of fur - puppies? - eventually settled down, laying at her side and on her lap. A larger mass of fur lay down beside her, and she, not quite knowing what she was doing, cuddled up next to it. Fear was driven off by the comforting warmth that enveloped her, and she drifted off to an exhausted, grateful sleep.

***

Finley awoke to the smell of fish broth stewing over a fire. Opening her tired, slightly encrusted eyes, she noticed that she was no longer swaddled in fur, but in a massive yak-hair blanket that smelled of campfire ashes. She pushed her way out of the fabric and sat up, rubbing her eyes free from dried tears.

“You’re awake.”

With a squeak, she turned around to find the source of the voice.

In the armchair across the room sat a giant.

Well, a giant compared to Finley, at least. Broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, he looked more like a bear that the hunters would haul in sometimes than a man. His scraggly grey-brown beard seemed to go on forever, and his eyes, set under a heavy brow, were just as wild as those of the wolf lying at his feet.

He stood, whistling sharply to the beast, who immediately followed his motion, and strode across the room with thundering footsteps.

“What were ye doing in Vigi and Samr’s hut, kid?” She shrank under the bear-man’s gaze, willing herself to disappear into the blanket around her. “Go on, tell me.”

She could only mumble tremulously. Something about mud, chickens, and cold.

“Hm. Hang on.” The man walked over to the fireplace, the wolf - the one that had found her earlier, Finley noticed - staying at the bedside, golden eyes trained on her. Within a minute, the man returned with a cup of fish broth, placing it in her hands.

He then sat on the edge of the bed, the wood creaking under his weight, and waited patiently for her to drink the broth. She did so. It was nowhere as good as her mother’s, but she downed the cup gratefully, almost burning her mouth in the process.

“Now, can ye tell me what happened?” the man asked, a little quieter and less severe than before.

Nodding, she found her voice.

“Ronnie…put me in mud. Tried to find Ma, but wolf find me.” She pointed to the golden-eyed wolf, who perked its ears up in response to the attention. “Brought me to warm place with puppies. Then I fell asleep.”

“Yer Lartin and Alfrun’s latest kid, right?” She nodded - she knew her mother and father went by those names sometimes. “This ‘Ronnie’ is yer older sister, Athrhan?” Another nod. “Hm.”

He stood, placing a hand on the golden-eyed wolf’s head and scratching behind its ear.

“This is Vigi. He’s one of my best dogs. He’s only part wolf, ye see. He brought ye to his hut, kept ye safe with Samr and her pups. My dogs know their kin, and they’d never leave a fellow pack member out in the cold. I think yer sister could take a few lessons from them.”

Finley said nothing, resigned to staring at the empty cup in her hands.

After a minute, the man gathered her up in the blanket, hoisting her up in his arms as easily as she would one of her stuffed toys.

“I’ll take ye home. Yer parents must be shaking in their boots right about now.” With that, he pushed open the door and made his way across town, Vigi following alongside.

As they passed through the marketplace, the man spoke up.

“Kid - what’s yer name, again?”

“Finley. Ronnie calls me ‘Fish-Brains.’”

He made a sound that could have been a cross between a laugh and a growl.

“I’ll just call ye ‘kid,’ if ye don’t mind.”

“Okay.” They passed into the more familiar quarter where Finley knew her family’s house was. “What can I call ye?”

“Geilir.”


	2. The Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of winter, Finley takes a walk in the woods but is chased into a tree by several large wolves, lead by one at least three times her size. As night falls, the wolves finally leave her alone in the tree, and she’s found by Liam several hours later.

145 of the 5th Age:

She was so cold. Her skin was like ice, her eyes nearly frozen shut.

Liam tore his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it tightly around his daughter, drawing her close in an attempt to warm her up.

Why had she been out here alone? Hati roamed the woods this time of year - it wasn’t safe for warriors, let alone a child.

He brushed Finley’s hair from her face and checked her pulse. It was weak and stuttering, but existent. She was alive.

Sighing in relief, he lifted her into his arms, turning back north to Rellekka.

Something, however, drew his attention back to the tree he had found her in. Despite the winter raging around it, the tree was still blossoming, its leaves green and its branches free from snow. Shifting the bundled Finley onto one arm, he approached the tree and placed a hand on its bark.

Immediately, he drew back in surprise.

It was warm.

Not as warm as a bonfire, for sure, but surprisingly warm for a tree in the dead of winter. Touching the tree again, he noticed that the warmth almost pulsated - humming with power.

For the briefest of moments, an image formed behind Liam’s eyes: one of a land where ash fell like snow and rivers of fire split black rock.

Lightning flashed, and the vision was gone.

His hand left the tree again, and he stood still for a moment before shaking his head.

Whatever that image was, it didn’t matter. This tree - whatever power it held - had saved his daughter’s life, and that was all he cared about.

Before he turned back around and hustled through the snow to Rellekka, he bowed his head and mumbled two words to the tree, hoping that the gratitude of a relieved father would be enough.

“Thank you.”


	3. Squirrel-Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after Finley joins Athrhan, Sullivan, and Liam in the family’s woodcutting and woodworking business.

149 of the 5th Age:

Why does everyone keep comparing me to animals?

It started with Rhani calling me ‘Fish-Brains.’ Then, Sully started to call me ‘Dog-Breath.’ Now, Pa calls me ‘Squirrel-Arms.’

At least the last one makes some sort of sense.

I’m not strong like Rhani and Sully are, and I can’t lift logs like they can. Not yet. So, I climb. That’s my job.

From the ground, ye can’t know if the wood up high is any good for carving until ye cut the tree down. Cutting a poor tree is a right waste of time, Pa tells me, so I climb, strip some branches, test the wood, and holler to him if I think the tree’s worth downing at all.

Then, we all start swinging our axes.

Rhani teases me - she says I’m like one of the beetles that chews heartwood to a pulp.

“Once you’re in a tree, it’s probably going to die.”

I don’t think that’s true, though. Aye, the tree’s not in the ground anymore, but at least it’s not in the stomach of a beetle. It’s a dresser, a bowl, a boat, anything, really. It’s still alive, just a bit differently than before.

I’d rather be a squirrel than a beetle anyway.


	4. A Pup for a Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geilir presents Finley with a wolf-dog pup from one of the latest litters to be born.

149 of the 5th Age:

I meant every word of what I said to the kid when I first met her.

My dogs know their kin.

Gramr and Vala’s latest litter took to her almost immediately after I let her meet them last week. It was no surprise to me that they did, considering Vigi - may his soul forever hunt in the forests of Valhalla - is their grandsire. What was a surprise to me was that, within the hour, the pups had stopped doing their normal pup business all over the place and had instead started to follow the kid around, almost single-file starting at her heels.

Those pups didn’t just see the kid as one of their own - they saw her as a pack leader.

Kid has the makings of a houndmaster in her.

I picked out a pup - a coal-colored female, the largest of the litter - and placed it in her arms.

“What’s this one’s name?” I asked her. Kid took a moment to figure out exactly what I meant by that, and, when she did, this goofy, almost reverent look split her face.

“Rosta!”


	5. Feurhildr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley undertakes her coming of age trials. Among these include Sigli’s hunting trial, Swensen’s navigation trial (she’s blindfolded, dropped in the middle of the woods, and told to find her way back to Rellekka before sundown), and a trial of historical oration (she learns and performs an Epic detailing parts of the Fremennik hero-god V’s history). The last one on the list is Thorvald’s trial of bravery.

153 of the 5th Age:

The young Bannbreker girl, Finley, faced Koschei today.

I was worried for her, to be honest. She may have the name of a warrior, but her temperament leaves much to be desired.

Put simply, she is far too…well…

The word ‘merciful’ comes to mind.

Her and Dendor are cut from the same cloth - I just know it. But, where Dendor is a dragon, Finley is a rabbit.

It’s funny. I thought that, with all the time she spends around Geilir and that wolf-dog, she would be a bit more fierce. Guess old Hradarsson’s getting soft in his old age.

She came to me this morning, wearing that broad, silly smile she’s always wearing, and ready for her trial of bravery. I explained to her the rules: no weapons, no armor, fight to the death. At that last one, she paled slightly, but agreed to the terms and climbed down the ladder.

I watched from above. She spent a few minutes walking around the arena, looking for her opponent. When Koschei leapt from the shadows, I had expected her to run, screaming.

But, she didn’t. She stood her ground.

She seemed reluctant to fight, aye, but she didn’t run.

Five minutes went by. Then ten. Koschei jabbed and slashed with his sword again and again, but Finley just dodged and evaded. Some of Koschei’s hits connected, drawing blood, but she just kept dodging.

Then, I realized what she was doing.

She was going for a victory by endurance - waiting until her opponent was tired and vulnerable before even throwing a punch.

Well met, Hradarsson. Well met.

He must have taught her that little parable of his that he’s so fond of – the one about the storm and the blade of grass.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work for long, for Koschei had also clued in to her scheme.

He feigned exhaustion, dropping to his knees and breathing heavily. Seeing this, she assumed victory and held out a hand to help him up.

That was a bad move.

Koschei sprang forward and knocked her head sideways with a fist, sending her to the ground. It was satisfying, seeing the almost betrayed look on her face when she stumbled back upright.

Then, it was like a switch had been thrown. She stopped ducking and dodging and started punching and kicking, throwing her whole body into every move. At one point, she curled both hands together into one fist and swung hard into Koschei’s chest, just as a woodcutter would do to a tree, minus the axe.

The blade of grass became the storm.

Of course, we don’t call Koschei 'The Deathless’ for nothing. Each time she knocked him down, he would spring back upright and the fight would continue, and soon, it was she who was exhausted. A quick stab to the chest and a knock over the head were enough to down her completely, and I had her brought upstairs to recover.

She hasn’t woken up yet – I don’t expect her to until tomorrow morning.

I think I’ll let her pass this trial. It was a trial of bravery, after all, and, despite everything, she refused to run from the fight.

I’ll recommend to Chief Brundt that she train with myself and Koschei for the foreseeable future. I wonder if Brundt will also accept my suggestion for her new name.

Feurhildr Lartinsdóttir.

With some work, I think she’ll make a fine warrior. Between Hradarsson’s boar-headed cleverness, Koschei’s raw strength, and my skill, we’ll teach her well.


	6. A Raider's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley and Athrhan both become wanted by the Dagannoth raiding parties based in Rellekka.

154 of the 5th Age:

“My vote goes to Dendor. She’s fierce. Powerful. The Daggermouths won’t stand a chance.”

“Aye, but what about Feurhildr?”

“What about her?”

“She’s more pragmatic, more clever. Ye can have all the muscle in the world, but it won’t make a difference if ye can’t think yer way out of a broken crate.”

“Dendor’s not an idiot. I pity anyone who calls that woman an idiot to her face…”

“I’m not trying to say that Dendor’s an idiot. What I’m trying to say is that she and Feurhildr have very different ways of going about getting the job done, and I think we need to weigh the options rather than just banking on brute strength.”

“Alright, then. Let’s weigh the options. Option one; a true Fremennik warrior. Ruthless and unyielding; no Daggermouth could stand against her. Option two; a dog-walker with a soft heart. She may be a more flexible fighter than her sister, but she’d rather try to make peace with the Daggermouths than do what needs to be done to protect our people.”

“Hm.”

“The Daggermouths don’t respond to mercy. Nor do any of the world’s monsters. I’m not going to let her put our lives and the lives of our children at risk, aye?”

“Then we’ll recruit both Dendor and Feurhildr.”

“What?”

“Ye said it yerself. One’s ruthless and unyielding, the other’s flexible and soft-hearted. They balance each other out. Dendor will keep Feurhildr from weaving flower crowns for the Daggermouths, and Feurhildr will keep Dendor from cutting the world in half with her axes.”

“Aye, that’s fair…”


	7. The Final Bannbreker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ava gives birth to a daughter, Aideen (her ninth child), prematurely. She, Liam, and Finley are driven nearly to exhaustion trying to keep her alive the first few weeks.

154 of the 5th Age:

Finley jolted upright, almost immediately swinging her legs off her bed and standing, coming face to face with a baggy-eyed Liam.

He didn’t have to say a word. All he did was yawn and stagger over to a chair in the corner. As he collapsed there, Finley made her way down the hall to her parent’s bedroom.

Ava was there, fast asleep, cheeks wet from tears and an arm draped over the rim of the nearby cradle. Gingerly removing her mother’s arm from the cradle, Finley gathered up the swaddled infant inside and held her gently, yet close.

Keep little Aideen warm. Keep her warm, and she’ll get better.

Finley just stood there, cradling Aideen and carefully watching her breathing patterns.

Make sure her breathing doesn’t stop. Keep her warm, keep her breathing.

“Ye’ll make it, Aideen. I just know it,” she barely whispered. “They’ll sing songs about ye - the Bannbreker child who kicked Death himself in the arse.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Finley swore she saw a shadow flicker.

She glanced over and saw nothing but an empty doorway.


	8. For Want of Some Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 155 is the year everything starts to go wrong for Finley. Though the year starts off normally, things take a turn for the weird when she runs into a lone traveler in the woods.

155 of the 5th Age:

Putrid leaf litter squelched under the man’s boots as he trudged through the evergreen forest. He drew his cloak tighter around himself, another violent shiver shaking down his spine, and saw as his breath crystallized in the early Rintra air.

This place was far too cold for him. As soon as he was able, he would set sail for someplace warmer: someplace far more suited to his tastes. For now, however, he was stuck in this accursed forest, wherever it was, thanks to a faulty teleport spell.

He made a mental note to find that idiot who sold him those dubious-looking law runes and gut him with his bare hands.

Gripping the now disused staff he used as a walking stick, he vaulted over a rotting log, only to find himself sinking thigh-deep into an unseen mud-hole on the other side.

Yelping out a strangled curse, he tried to lift his feet from the thick muck, but it had already soaked through his trousers and into his boots.

He was stuck.

“No, no, NO! GAH!” He scrambled at the log behind him, hoping to hoist himself up, but the wood crumbled away at his touch. He got no purchase on the leaf litter either, only succeeding in covering himself with foul-smelling gunk.

He was quite stuck.

Sighing hotly, he reclined onto the log, resigned to waiting.

Someone was bound to come by at some point. Some poor, worthless soul would wander past, and he would have them pull him out of the blasted mud-hole.

Perhaps he would then kill them and get a new pair of trousers out of the deal. Maybe even some food.

His stomach growled at the thought.

So, he waited. Minutes passed, though it felt like hours. The air was getting colder by the moment, and the late afternoon sun had started to dip below the trees – he was running out of time. He wrung and rubbed his gloved hands together in an attempt to stave off the numbness that had begun to creep up his fingertips, shivering again. The combination of the dank mud and chilly air would surely make him ill, maybe even kill him, if someone didn’t…

“Its pelt, he made a cape and some teeth into horns.”

Finally.

The heavily-accented singing caught his ears – it was coming from the east, and was getting closer.

“Great monster died that night and a hero was born!”

As the singing devolved into – he grimaced slightly – whistling, he picked up the sound of wagon wheels rumbling against the muddy ground.

He hoped that his quarry was a merchant of some kind. A merchant with supplies, money, or other useful things in that wagon of theirs.

A trouser merchant, if he was lucky.

The wheels rumbled closer. He scanned the woods in front of him, hoping to catch sight of whoever was coming.

Then, he saw it.

A large handcart, pulled by girl, no older than fifteen years. She was headed straight for him.

He opened his mouth to call out and catch her attention, but there was no need.

She saw him first.

“Alright, there!” she called cheerfully, waving a hand. He guessed that whatever she had just said was some sort of greeting, and raised his own hand halfheartedly in reply.

“Ah, hello!”

“Got yerself stuck in the mud, didn’t ye?” The girl pulled the cart closer, stopping not more than three feet from where he 'stood,’ and crouched down, absently brushing a straw-colored bit of hair out of her eyes. “Ye’ve got to be cannie in these parts after a storm, sir. There’s mud-holes all over, just waiting to swallow ye whole!”

“Right…” He only understood about half of that, if he were to be honest with himself. “Where exactly are 'these parts?'”

“Nevermind that, sir! Yer stuck, so let me help ye out of there first.” With that, she smiled broadly, holding out a hand.

For a moment, he balked, somewhat surprised at the girl’s unquestioning willingness to help him. He stared hard at her, hoping to find the lie, hoping to see the hidden weapon that she would no doubt plunge into his chest at the first opportunity.

But, he saw nothing. There was no malice in her smile, no deception in her eyes, and no double meaning to the hand she extended for him to take.

Was this girl even human?

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he placed a hand in hers, half expecting her to sprout two more heads and tear him apart.

But, she didn’t.

In the next moment, the girl hauled him one-handed out of the mud-hole with seemingly no effort. As he righted himself, he noticed that his feet were now bare, his boots having been left behind in the mud.

“Oops! Sorry about the boots, sir,” the girl said sheepishly, scratching her head. “I’d give ye mine, but I don’t think mine’ll fit ye too well.”

She was right. He would get nothing from killing her. Not even a fitting pair of trousers.

“Hm,” he sighed, looking over at the girl’s handcart. He ground his teeth at the sight; the cart was full, but only of a bundle of reddish logs. Useless.

“Ah!” Oh no. The girl had noticed his examinations of the cart and launched into excited ramblings that started to fray his last nerve. “Maple! I’m bonnie proud of finding this wood, here. Had to hike fifteen miles ‘cause it’s a bit rare this far north, but it’ll make a fine inlay for my da’s latest project, and-”

“Shut up,” he growled, glaring at her. Instantly, that stupid smile was wiped clean from her face, replaced with a look of bewilderment. “You mentioned a town. Where.”

“Ah, aye. Rellekka’s just northwest of here. About half an hour’s donner.”

Rellekka. The ruthless barbarian warrior capital of the world. Going there would be quite possibly the worst idea since deciding to buy those law runes, especially if he needed to melt a couple of faces for new pairs of trousers and boots.

“No. I’m not going there.”

“Ah, right. Well, if ye head south west, ye’ll hit a bridge. That’ll take ye to some Outerlander town, I bet.” She scratched her head, gesturing in a general southerly direction, he assumed. “Ye’ve got to be cannie, though. There’s a den of wolves between here and there – they get a bit gutting after the sun goes down.”

“Wolves hardly concern me.”

“Aye, right.” Her brow furrowed mockingly, and he resisted the urge to reach over and snap her neck. It would be easy, getting this annoyance out of his personal space. “Rumors have it that Hati himself is about this time of year.”

Suddenly, she unhooked a sheathed knife from her belt and held it out for him to see.

“Ye’d better take this to protect yerself.”

He couldn’t help but laugh dryly at her gesture. A knife? What did she think he was, a child?

“You must be joking.”

“I’m not kidding ye. This is my lucky chib. I haven’t been attacked by wolves once since I started carrying this.” She suddenly reached forward and snagged his sleeve, pressing the sheathed knife into his hand. “And, if ye do get attacked, it’ll do a right job of keeping ye alive.” She punctuated her statement by forcing his hand closed around the sheath and shoving the whole mess into his chest.

He looked down at the knife. It was a simple-looking steel dagger with a wooden handle, upon which runes were artfully carved. F-E-U-R-H-I-L-D-R. The girl’s name, perhaps?

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Fine, I’ll take it.” Her smile returned, full force, as she released his hand.

“Aye then! Safe trekking, sir!” With that, she picked up the cart’s handles and began to wheel it away.

“Right…” Without her noticing, he tossed the all but useless staff into her cart and headed in the direction she had pointed him in.

In terms of acquiring a new pair of trousers, boots, or both, slitting throats might be a bit more effective than throwing fireballs.


	9. The Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter comes, and Hati’s wolves once again threaten Rellekka. Geilir, now pushing eighty years old, volunteers to stand guard on the outskirts of town one night, scowling at anyone who brings up his age and failing health.

155 of the 5th Age:

They found Gubbi’s body this morning.

The old man was still standing at his post. Five wolf corpses were strewn around him, all speared through.

The wolves weren’t what took him. His body had no open wounds, and none of the blood on the snow was his. It must have been the cold.

I should’ve volunteered to go in his place. To hell with the glares and growls he was giving everyone - no one with a cough that bad should’ve been out in that snowstorm.

When I got the news, I ran to his house and checked on the pack - I knew that would’ve been his first concern.

The dogs were silent. Heads bowed, eyes dull. They were mourning, just as I was.

I wandered around his house and the surrounding dog huts for a while. Though everything looked the same, it felt, sounded, and even smelled outlandish to me. 

I thank the gods for Rosta. She stayed by my side, occasionally taking my hand in her teeth to pull me back to reality. At one point, however, she loped ahead, edging around to a part of the house I hadn’t been to yet, and I followed her.

I almost keeled over when I saw it.

The pyre ship.

Gubbi had built and carved it himself. He had chosen the time and manner of his own death, and had then gone and built a goddamn bloody pyre ship himself because he didn’t trust anyone else to do so and get it right.

Aye, that’s Gubbi.

Running my hands along the woodwork, I could almost hear him ranting and grumbling as he carved the thing.

Chief Brundt found me a while after, and I helped him haul the ship out into the bay.


	10. Rosta's Cairn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finley is recruited to the same Dagannoth raiding party as Athrhan was, and her and Rosta accompany them to places like Waterbirth Island in an attempt to stave off the rising daggermouth population. It’s during one of these raids, when the party’s boat is attacked, that Rosta is pulled overboard by a Dagannoth and is lost to the sea.
> 
> Finley spends the next month scouring the ocean and coastlines by herself, tirelessly searching for signs of Rosta. Eventually, she finds Rosta’s collar washed up on the northern coast of the Fremennik Province and finally accepts her beloved wolf-dog’s death, building a memorial cairn on the spot where she found the collar.

157 of the 5th Age:

It’s a sharper grief than before.

Sharper than when Geilir was taken.

I know why.

Ye can’t hold a grudge against the cold. Ye can’t take vengeance on a winter storm.

Ye can, however, take vengeance on the Daggermouth that pulled yer best friend overboard and drowned her.

As I run my fingers over the collar - I’ll need to preserve it to stop the salt from ruining the leather too much - and memorize the pattern of stones that make up Rosta’s cairn, I feel it gnawing at my insides. That sharp grief.

It tells me to kill them - kill every single Daggermouth I can find. To keep this from happening again. To protect my people.

I remember a story Geilir told me: one of a man who asks to be turned into a basilisk so he can fight off a sea serpent and protect his village. He succeeds, but can never look upon his family, or his people, again. He had to become a monster to save everyone.

Is that the sort of future I’m headed towards?

I’m not sure I want that, no matter how much I want to protect what I love…


	11. The Seventh Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While attempting to visit Sullivan on Miscellania, Finley and Athrhan wind up on Lunar Isle. Once told about the feud between the Moon Clan and the Fremennik, Finley agrees to learn their ways and help settle things between the two groups. She travels to the dream world, meeting and learning from her multiple ethereal selves, but her final challenge comes as a less-than-welcome surprise.

158 of the 5th Age:

“Make sense of others - communication can lead to great wisdom.

Effort is the key to success, no matter what obstacles may lie in yer path.

Relate to others - sharing thought and emotion is the bedrock of friendship.

Appreciate the unknown and look for reason within chaos.

Remember yer past and let it guide ye forward.

Know and have confidence in your abilities.”

“That’s it! Well done!” Finley’s first ethereal self - a near perfect image of her, yet with a slightly too-large smile - clapped her on the shoulder. “Just one more trial!”

“I thought there were only six lessons?” she asked, gripping her dramenwood staff and ignoring the pervasive itchiness of the Suqah hide armor she wore. The ethereal woman shook her head in response.

“Six core lessons. The seventh is different for everyone, representing what a potential Moon Clan mage needs to learn the most. Even I have no idea what ye’ll face.”

“Aye. I’d best get to it, then. Appreciating the unknown is a core lesson, after all.” With that, she felt a teleport spell start to yank on her spine.

“That’s the spirit! Good luck, real me!”

In an instant, the world changed around her.

***

“Please describe what happened between you and your final ethereal self again.”

Finley gulped down another mouthful of biscuit, washed it down with a pull of tea, and scratched her head.

“Onei, I thought ye could-”

“Read your mind? Yes, I can.” The Oneiromancer idly plucked a burnt twig from the ceremonial brazier next to her and ground it between her fingers, ignoring her own tea. “However, I already saw the fact of what happened from your memories. I now need to know what you learned through the lens of your own perception to properly pass judgement.”

“Aye, alright,” she mumbled, not exactly wanting to re-visit the confrontation. Despite her reluctance, however, she still saw…it? Her? Herself?

Herself, scarred and burnt almost beyond recognition.

Herself, eyes burning with a sickly blue-green light.

Herself, fire sparking from her fingertips and smoke leaking out from between her teeth.

Herself.

A monster.

She felt the fire sear her skin, saw the hands of her ‘future’ self reaching for her throat, heard the words hissed in her ear.

‘This is yer future, Finley. Ye did this - became this. Do ye think it was worth it, now?!?’

“I…I was afraid of her,” she said finally. The Oneiromancer nodded, motioning for her to continue. “Afraid of myself, I suppose.”

“You won the fight, though. Why do you think that was?”

She stuffed another biscuit in her mouth, hoping the time it would take to chew and swallow would give her enough time to figure out an answer.

It wasn’t. She continued to think in silence long after the biscuit was gone.

“Right. I think I’ve got it,” she said finally. “She said that she was the future, aye? I was afraid of her. So, I’m…afraid of the future. I’m afraid of what sort of monster I might have to become in order to protect my home. And my people. But, I won, aye? The monster didn’t. So, that must mean…”

“Go on.”

“That must mean that the future isn’t set in stone. I have a choice - I can forge my own damn destiny if I want to. And, as long as I put some effort into it, I can find a future that’s good for everyone. Even me. I don’t have to become a monster to fight a monster.”

The Oneiromancer hummed in approval, smiling slightly.

“You’ve learned well. Welcome to the Moon Clan, Finley Bannbreker.”


	12. Blood and Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The invasion of Rellekka ends with a stray Dagannoth making a run for a camp of civilians who had chosen to stay above-ground to help the warriors during the battle. One of these civilians is Ava, who claims she can use her upbringing as a medical druid to help heal any injured warriors.
> 
> It doesn't end well.

158 of the 5th Age:

“MA! NO!”

Words devolve into incoherent wails and screams.

Finley whirls and drives her spear deep into the already dead Daggermouth’s skull before vaulting over the shattered wooden barrier and dropping to her knees beside what remains of her mother.

Shredded.

Torn.

Bloodied.

The only recognizable thing about the corpse is the light blue hangerock it wears. A gift from Liam.

She gathers her mother’s blood-soaked torso close to her chest, sobs and wheezes wracking her own.

“Finley! What’s wro-”

Her head snaps up - she feels her mother’s blood cooling on her cheek - and she locks eyes with a lanky Fremennik woman wielding twin axes, her dark brown hair, so much like their mother’s, tangled and whipping in the battle-tinged breeze.

Athrhan.

Her eyes, rimmed with Daggermouth blood, flicker between Finley and the corpse in her arms.

“Ye…” she croaks, faltering slightly. “What…what have ye done?”

“Athrhan…I…I-”

“WHAT HAVE YE DONE?!?”

“I-”

Steel flashes across Finley’s neck, and the world goes sideways.

The metal bites again and again, leaving trails of fire in its wake.

There’s a chorus of growling and shouting.

Anguished screams ring in her ears.

Only some of them are her own.

Someone lifts her up, gathers her against a bare chest, laced with burn scars that form a slight ‘w’ shape across the well-formed muscle.

The sounds of battle fade, yielding to creaking wood and rolling waves.


	13. A Routine Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random Fremennik dental health headcanon.

Sometime during 157 of the 5th Age:

Last winter, Athrhan’s teeth finally wore down to the quick, and she started wincing every time she bit into a piece of meat, dried fish, or hard tack. One day, she up and refused to eat or drink, the pain being too much for her to handle.

Denton, the leader of our raiding party, teased her about it, saying something about how silly it was that the greatest Daggermouth slayer to ever stalk the seas was brought down by a toothache.

He’s missing a couple of teeth now.

She started chewing on rotewort after that, just like every other sailor, hunter, and archer in Rellekka who wears their teeth down on their work.

The chewing stops around mid-spring when the weather warms and, without fail, starts up again when Hati’s breath freezes the soil. When that happens, the smell of shredded rotewort leaves fills the air, and, if you turn your ears right, you can actually pick out who happens to be chewing on the stuff at the moment. There’s the occasional crunching of woody bits, the spitting out of spent wads, and, most obviously, the squeak of the fresh leaves between teeth and tongue.

Athrhan complains about the squeaking (as well as the taste), and constantly yawps about using dried leaves instead. Dried leaves do nothing, though - only fresh ones heal tooth pain. Must be something hanging about in the leaf juice.

Just last week, I started chewing on it as well - working sinew with my teeth has taken its toll.

I do have to agree with Athrhan on one thing; the squeaking is more annoying when it’s going on in your own head. The taste isn’t bad, though: earthy, a bit bitter, and with a slightly alcoholic bite to it.


End file.
